John Davies

I know my life's a pain and but a span, I know my sense is mocked with everything; And to conclude, I know myself a man, Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.

I know my soul hath power to know all things, Yet is she blind and ignorant of all; I know I am one of nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

As spiders touched seek their webs' inmost part, As bees in storms unto their hives return, As blood in danger gathers to the heart, As men seek towns when foes the country burn.

We that acquaint ourselves with every zone, And pass both tropics and behold the poles, When we come home, are to ourselves unknown, And unacquainted still with our own souls.

We seek to know the moving of each sphere, And the strange cause of th' ebbs and floods of Nile; But of that clock within our breasts we bear, The subtle motions we forget the while.

What can we know, or what can we discern, When error chokes the windows of the mind, The diverse forms of things, how can we learn, That have been ever from our birthday blind?

Why did my parents send me to the schools That I with knowledge might enrich my mind? Since the desire to know first made men fools, And did corrupt the root of all mankind.

Wedlock, indeed, hath oft compared been To public feasts, where meet a public rout,— Where they that are without would fain go in, And they that are within would fain go out.

Much like a subtle spider which doth sit In middle of her web, which spreadeth wide; If aught do touch the utmost thread of it, She feels it instantly on every side.